Anything
by Sarahrose660
Summary: There's something special about opening up a new word document, Blaine thinks for a moment as he surveys the laptop screen in front of him. Something so innocent and pure, fields of white against a grey background.


A/N: Like with Firebomb, I got inspired and wrote this.

Anything

There's something special about opening up a new word document, Blaine thinks for a moment as he surveys the laptop screen in front of him. Something so innocent and pure, fields of white against a grey background. Begging for the touch of words, the stroke of genius, the gentle caress that only a true writer can give. Blaine would never confess to being such a writer, but he likes to pretend anyway. Pretend that he's sat in some New York apartment, the smell of fresh coffee floating through the rooms and filling his senses. Pretend he's sitting at a small desk, laptop in front of him, words of beauty and truth flying from his fingertips faster than he can think them. And the sound of a key, turning in the lock, the dull rusty scrape of it filling his body with anticipation and his heart with fire. Kurt.

Kurt, with his wit and beauty and strength, being there in his fantasy with him. Crossing the room, kissing Blaine on the cheek _– and elsewhere later, lips, neck, lower… anywhere they can think of, anywhere they can dream of – _asking what he wrote that day. Maybe even checking it over, smiling at the funny bits, his high laugh like the sound of water breaking over rocks. No, softer than that, more gentle and kind. Like the sound of water playing over pebbles, stroking them just as Blaine will caress Kurt.

Blaine brings his mind back to the present, and stares at the word document in front of him. So much promise, so much future. This document could be anything. It could be a piece of homework, an essay furiously researched and typed about the Second World War, or the effect of technology on the development of medicine. It could be a poem, flowing words with empty meanings filling the page. Blaine's never been very good at poems. Or a revision timetable, laid out in military straight lines, dictating every aspect of Blaine's life until he wants to scream.

It could be a story. A story like Blaine used to love as a child, full of pirates and dragons, wizards and magic. A horror story like his brother used to love, the sort that would keep Blaine wide awake at night, terrified that the shadow in the corner was actually alive. A love story, maybe. Declarations of undying passion whispered under the stars, longing looks and forbidden desires. Romance never seems to work out when Blaine tries it, but he won't let that stop him reading the books dedicated to it.

And maybe, just maybe, that word document could be a letter. It could be any sort of letter, Blaine thinks. A campaign letter, a letter to the school. A letter to a pen pal, written in stilted French. Or maybe even a letter to a boy that means everything. A boy like Kurt… Blaine's fingers speed across the keys, red and green lines filling the page as he misspells and misses full stops. He doesn't care. It's an hour later when he stops, corrects his mistakes and reads it through.

He looks at the words he's written, his whole soul laid out bare and raw on a page. Apologies and explanations dance in front of his eyes, seeming to mock him with the very knowledge of their existence. Clichés chase after them, tired used words begging for retirement and yet never being given it. Metaphors, similes, every piece of rhetorical device Blaine had ever been taught, ever discovered used to outline the reason for his letter.

And every now and then, phrases of love and affection, words he knows Kurt craves from him. Words Blaine doesn't have the right to give. Kurt is flawed, has issues and problems that Blaine can't even begin to comprehend, can't begin to help him with. Blaine is just a scared teenager, hiding behind his long words and fancy education. There's nothing he can offer Kurt.

He looks at the text again, disgust filling him when he sees his naïve words and innocent promises. Before he can think about sending the letter, giving away that part of himself, making himself so vulnerable, he highlights all he has written, gazing at the black and white text before deleting it forever. He stares at the blank document again for a second before typing in a title and starting to write. After all, he needs to complete his history essay at some point.


End file.
